Snow in Roda: The Chronicles of Clan Whatsit
by Matthias Waverunner
Summary: A clan made up mostly of rather insane people, based in Baguba Port, sets out to join the rest of Ivalice. My first story. Minimal romance in much later chapters.
1. Marble, Marble, Everywhere

_Author's note: Greetings, denizens of that august repository of fanfiction known as I know a lot of people who turn out to be very bad writers say this, but: this is my first fanfic, so bear with me. To differentiate from the normal text, disclaimers and the rare author's note will be in italics like this. I welcome, and occasionally listen to, reviews and constructive criticism; genuine flames will be laughed at and possibly saved to be laughed at more later._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy Tactics Advance, nor do I own any places, concepts, or characters first introduced in the actual game. They belong to Square-Enix. I do own these original clanners, their personalities, and any mistakes I may make pertaining to the things I don't own._

Snow In Roda: The Chronicles of Clan Whatsit

Chapter 1: Marble, Marble, Everywhere

_In which Matthias laments Baguba Port's décor, and a clan is born._

"I mean, it's not like I'm complaining, I _like_ green marble, but I still think that covering _everything_ with it is a bit much."

Matthias, a black mage newly released from apprenticeship, was expounding upon the few problems inherent in living his entire life in Baguba Port. His companion, Roland, a similarly new animist, nodded and stared into his drink. Matthias' father ran the _Golden Gil_, and Roland was always being invited to try the newest inventions before they were inflicted upon the customers. The latest was a mixture of lemons, sugar, and water. It was an outside sort of drink, so the two of them were sitting outside. Roland thought the drink was called "lemon-help," but he could have been mistaken.

"I suppose I see what you mean," he replied, "but it'd be a lot of work to take all the marble _off_, wouldn't it?" Roland tried to be a reasonable moogle most of the time; Famfrit knew Mat wouldn't bother.

"Roland?" Matthias began.

"Yup?"

"I just realized. I've known you for years, and yet you've never once said 'kupo.'"

"I wondered if you'd ever ask about that. I figured you were too polite. Guess I forgot who I was dealing with. Anyway, 's a speech impediment."

"Oh." Matthias swirled his lemon-help thoughtfully. "Are you sure it isn't all the _other_ moogles who have speech impediments?" He had apparently decided to ignore the politeness comment.

Roland blinked. "D'you know, I think that's the most sensible thing you've said all month?"

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After a silent, reflective ten minutes of staring out over the water (they were perched on the harbor wall), something seemed to strike Matthias. "We'll be expected to join a clan eventually, won't we?" 

"I suppose so…" Roland replied dubiously, not sure where this was going.

"Well, why don't we start our own clan? I'm sure my dad'll let us operate out of the pub here. In fact, he'll probably be thrilled to make some money off of us for a change."

"'Scuse me," a heavy Muscadet accent called suddenly. A quick look around revealed that the accent belonged to a human of about their age (well, about Matthias' age, anyway; moogles age somewhat more quickly) in the leather tabard and straw hat of an archer, who grinned broadly and doffed said hat in an elegant bow. Matthias, grinning an identical grin, mirrored his actions with his own large pointy black mage's hat; Mat was born to be a blue mage.

Roland, meanwhile, was trying to figure out why archers _wore_ pointy hats.

Laughing at Matthias' mimicry, the archer continued, "I couldn't 'elp over'eahin' you gents, and, well, I been lookin' fer a clan meself. Name's Tony," he added as he held his hand out, "'n as you c'n prob'ly tell, 'm 'n archah, but," he paused, gesturing to the lute slung across his back, "'m also bit've a musician."

"Matthias. Call me Mat." Mat grinned widely (again) as he shook the proffered hand, mentally giving up on mimicking Tony's accent.

"Roland. Call me anything else and I'll gut you with a harmonica." Nevertheless, Roland too grinned at the antics of the new arrival.

Mat looked at Roland oddly. "You don't have a harmonica." Not waiting for a reply, he immediately launched into the next stage of clan planning (planning was something Mat was surprisingly good at). "Well, now we need just a few more people and we'll be a good size for a beginning clan. Lessee, we'll need a couple of melee fighters, definitely…" Mat trailed off into a world of battlefield tactics, weighing the benefits of various jobs that fit that description.

"And probably a healer, like a white mage; we can't rely on items all the time, you know, and I can't do healing yet," Roland put in.

"Hmm … fensah'n'a white monk, mebbe…" Tony opined.

"_And a white mage_." Roland was quite insistent on this point.

"That might work," Mat agreed, oblivious to Roland's protests.

"I vote Roland 'eah's the boss," Tony recommended.

"Motion seconded and carried," Mat decided.

"Alright then. Mat, put up the requests, wouldja? On fensah, I mean fencer, one white monk, _and one white mage_." Roland tended to speak in italics when provoked.

"Righto, Clan Chief Roland."

"Shut up, Mat."


	2. Preparations

_Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy Tactics Advance, or any locations, concepts, or characters first introduced in the game. They belong to Square-Enix. I do own these clanners, their personalities, and any mistakes about the things I don't own._

Snow in Roda: The Chronicles of Clan Whatsit

Chapter 2: Preparations

_In which Tony sings anachronistic songs, Mat goes shopping, we meet the other three lunatics involved, and there is an argument over the clan's name._

Tony was apparently writing a song.

The bits and snatches that drifted out of his room were _not_ recognizable to Roland as the unmistakable strains of _Heartbreak Hotel_, because there were about five people in Ivalice who might have recognized the song, and none of them were anywhere near Baguba Port. Roland was beginning to get annoyed with the song, for three reasons. The first was that all traces of the archer's accent disappeared when he sang, and Roland was positive that that shouldn't happen.

The second reason was that the following exchange was taking place with irritating frequency between the two of them:

"Will you shut that totemas-forsaken racket up!"

"Right y'ah, Genahral Roland!"

The third thing was that, although the archer _was_ quiet after these outbursts, it lasted for about ten minutes. Roland was trying to review the responses they had received to their requests for members, and did not particularly want background music. The fact that he was trying to write a letter to his girlfriend at the same time was not helping.

He had just gotten to the tricky part when Matthias looked over his shoulder at the letter and decided to start offering advice. This was not, in fact, particularly helpful. Mat had never had a girlfriend, and was only applying general rules of courtesy, rather than specific very-careful-talking-to-girlfriend rules. Even the general courtesy wasn't as great as it could have been, filtered as it was through the mage's rather strange personality.

Eventually, Roland convinced him to go out and buy some supplies rather than failing to help with the letter. Of course, at that point, Tony decided to break off the songwriting and wander over to bug Roland.

"So, why're y'writing t'a dry, trop'cal plain?"

It took Roland a few seconds to realize that he was referring to the letter.

"Savannah is my … friend's name." Roland cursed silently when he realized that he had paused just a little too long. The archer gave him a serious look.

"Y'mean gihlfriend, doncha?"

"I suppose so," Roland sighed, knowing that any argument he started was one he was inevitably going to lose. "You're not going to try to help with the letter, are you?"

"Doubt it. Neveh had a gihlfriend; wouldn't know how t'talk t'one."

"Well, that never stopped Mat."

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The mage in question was debating whether to invest in Phoenix downs with the remainder of the budget, or to try to prevent their being needed by buying lots of Potions. He eventually decided to buy a few more things, then spend the remainder on Phoenix Downs and hope like hell that the white mage they got was good.

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"So, why've ya stopped just 'eah?" Tony continued, pointing to the end of what Roland had written so far.

"Well, thing is, that's the tricky part there. That's the point where I have to tell her that I'm forming a clan."

"What's t'big deal? Lotsa gihls'd love a clan leadah f'r'a boyfriend. Theah's lotsa prestige'n'money 'f ya good at t'job."

"Well, yes, I suppose, but the point really is that clans tend to spend long periods of time away from home."

"_Ah_. 'Fraid she'll find anotheh man?"

"Not really. She's not really that type."

"_Ah_," Tony said again. "Y'think _she'll_ be 'fraid y've found anotheh gihl."

"That's about right."

"Well, 'm sure y'll figeah it out 'ventually."

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Four letters, three arrivals, two new hit songs (courtesy of Tony, who in fact had a surprisingly good singing voice), and one week later, not to mention countless arguments and (from Mat's point of view) far too many shopping trips (especially once Angeline, the viera fencer, joined), the clan was fully outfitted and ready to go. As they gathered in the common room of the _Golden Gil_, only one vital detail remained: the clan's name.

Laying the traditional rod of a beginning black mage across the arms of his chair, Mat proceeded to pace the floor, blue flurry robe flapping at every turn, as he gave a stirring oration in favor of the moniker of "Clan Whatsit." Roland had stopped paying attention by now, and reached up to adjust his green beret. Laying his glass bell on the table beside him, he brushed some imaginary dirt off of the sleeve of his leather garb and took stock of the clanners around him.

To his right was the empty seat vacated by Mat. On his left sat Tony, with his own green beret hidden under his pointy hat, wearing leather garb and with a longbow leaning against his chair. Tony had pushed for the name "Knights of the Tea Table," having dropped the "Arthur" when it was pointed out that nobody in the clan went by that name.

Beyond Mat's seat was the white mage Roland had insisted upon hiring, a nu mou by the name of Toby. Although Toby had called for the simple name of "Roland and Company," and he looked the picture of serenity in his white robes with his white staff lying on the floor at his feet, his eccentric nature was betrayed by the bright red wizard hat perched incongruously on his head.

On Tony's left sat Angeline. The fencer wore leather garb, and had the rather disconcerting habit of laying a naked blade, usually the rapier she carried, known as the Stinger, on the table in front of her; since there wasn't one here, she had opted instead for sharpening it as others talked, which was nearly as menacing. A ruby earring glittering in her long ear, she had spoken in favor of the name "Rebels Without an Existence."

Sitting across the circle from Roland was the only other sane person in the group, a white monk called Basil. Well, he was _called_ "Bassil." As a bangaa, he naturally pronounced it with a double ess, and Tony and Mat had taken to mimicking his ssibilant sspeach. This was not out of any particular mean-spiritedness, but because Tony liked mimicking accents other than his own as an exercise in vocal control, and Mat just liked the sound. Basil, citing the magical nature of half of the clan, pushed for the name "Arcane Warriors of the Black Brigade." The reptilian humanoid cut an imposing figure in his leather garb and spiked boots, and one clawed finger was tapping impatiently against the arm of his chair, the movement hidden by the clawed Hard Knuckles he wore.

Roland became aware that Mat had finished talking and was poking him in the shoulder. Apparently it had been decided that, since everyone had voted for their own name, the leader got the casting vote. He stood up.

"Well, although I may seem biased, and although I'm flattered, Toby, that you'd see fit to include me in your idea for a name…"

"_Get on with it_," Angeline muttered.

"… I'm afraid I'll have to go with Mat's suggestion. Henceforth, we are Clan Whatsit!"


End file.
